


Names

by skripka



Category: NCIS
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, dark themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-01-22
Updated: 2005-01-22
Packaged: 2019-10-25 07:35:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17720891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skripka/pseuds/skripka
Summary: Seven names.





	Names

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to nancy and becc for saying "aww" at the right times.

Leroy was his father's name. Jethro, though, his mother insisted on. It had been her favorite grandfather's name, so Jethro it was.

If he closes his eyes, he can hear her yelling at him with that exasperated tone that mothers save for their sons and it makes him smile.

Jethro was an okay student in school. A few fistfights, here and there, but nothing serious. He joined the Marine Corps because it was either that or factory work, and he wanted to see more of the world than southern Virginia.

The Corps changed him. No longer Jethro--he was called every filthy name imaginable by everyone imaginable. It made him strong, it molded him into Gibbs, cocky and deadly.

Gibbs married Shannon in uniform and smiled at her in her white dress and for a brief, glorious time, he was more than what his name had molded him to. He was part of a family.

Kelly's Daddy was his favorite name of all.

The period following that doesn't bear dwelling on.

He tried to recreate it, he really did, but Gibbs felt somehow guilty... or lost... or angry. Despite Diane and Christine and Jen and God knows how many other lovers whispering "Jethro" in his ear, it never stuck.

Now he's nothing but an old horse, forged of steel and bitter and sawdust.

Gibbs he is and Gibbs he will remain.

 

***

 

Big "D", little "I", big "N", little "ozzo." Five-year old Anthony DiNozzo spent hours and days with that rubric, crayons and paper at the ready to practice his spelling

Always Anthony to his parents, the "Young Sir" to the help, "Anthony" took a small rebellion and announced to his 6th grade teacher that he'd be known as Tony from that moment on.

It was a bit of a heady rush which might have led to the bigger rebellion that definitely led to Rhode Island Military Academy. It was "DiNozzo" this and "DiNozzo" that, always barked, never purred. 

It wasn't until he discovered a talent for football and especially basketball that the name DiNozzo didn't feel like invective. When the scholarship to Ohio State was offered, he grabbed and ran.

"Big D," while talented, turned out to be a lot shorter than the other players and was somewhat chagrined to be known as "Little D," complete with pinky wave and droop. 

The nickname stuck even when he pledged Alpha Chi Delta to placate his father, but by that point the girls had figured out it was merely a joke. Which made Tony plenty happy for a few years.

The less said about the years following his knee blow-out, the better.

DiNozzo was pretty much his only name, then. Every time he moved on from precinct to precinct, he'd repeat his mantra to charm the secretaries. 

And then he met a bastard who wore his own name like a pair of shiny-around-the-seams jeans. With a flash of an official-looking business card, said bastard offered to turn Officer DiNozzo and Detective DiNozzo to Special Agent DiNozzo, and Tony decided that he liked the way that sounded.

Tony still remembers smiling.

 

***

 

Frank Sciuto, Jr. met Gloria St. Jean at Gallaudet and followed her home to Jefferson parish. Their wedding was raucous, yet oddly quiet.

Abigail's eyes were bright as she watched her mother sign over crib. Her first word was a clumsy wiggling hand on her chin, but her mother knew exactly what it meant and smiled. Abigail was babbling with her fingers by the age of 2, but it took until age 6 for her to say anything for the hearing to listen to.

She remembers lying in bed, between her parents, watching Frank mumble, his fingers moving in near-nonsense and thinking it was the coolest thing ever.

Abby re-spelled her own name when she was 8; an "A" in her right hand and an "S" in her left, miming the shape of her hairstyle. It's one of the reasons she still loves wearing pigtails in her hair. 

Gloria didn't miss it when her 13-year old daughter called her a bitch behind her back. She may have been deaf, but Gloria had been raised by a practical mother herself, and knew exactly what to do with foul-mouthed children.

Abby tasted soap for a week and made sure to only cuss when her mother was long gone. Frank thought it was amusing, especially when he taught her how to drive the old pickup truck and watched as Abby cussed up a storm with mouth and hand every time she stalled.

Frank added one of those words to Abby's name every time he took her driving again, and it never failed to make her laugh.

 

***

 

Memories are forged upon the playing fields of Eton.

Thatch was a lanky lad with a mop of unfortunate hair who had taken it upon himself to make Donald Mallard's first year a living hell.

"Ducky!"

Donald hunched in his seat. Just when his new letter from Mum had arrived.

"There you are, Ducky." Thatch was followed by his crowd of three boys--Nigel, James and Owl--it seemed as if he needed their back up for every single prank he tried to pull. Or at least an audience.

Donald was just as glad he had locked the tin of biscuits in his footlocker earlier.

"Got something to show you, Ducky." Nigel quacked and James and Owl sniggered. Thatch yanked Donald from his chair and began dragging the smaller boy outside. Donald fumbled the letter into his pocket, stumbling along between the shoves and unpolite yanks.

Thatch's quest led them at last to a pond. "There," he pointed, obviously pleased with his cleverness.

Donald followed Thatch's finger with his eyes. "It's a dead gosling." 

"A dead duck!" Owl sniggered again.

For the love of... Donald rolled his eyes. "No, it's a gosling. Different fowl entirely."

James, being the muscle of the group shoved Donald again. "Touch it, Ducky."

Donald stumbled forward. "What? Why would I do that?"

Thatch put his face in Donald's. "Or else we'll drop you in the pond."

Donald's eyes flicked from thug to thug, assessing his situation. "Fine," he sighed. He stepped onto the muddy verge, squatted down carefully, and picked up the poor creature gently. 

The feathers were cold and wet and it was obviously the runt of the hatching. Donald stroked its head softly as he stood and regarded the other four boys soberly. "Is this good enough?"

Owl and Nigel looked ill. James had his eyes squeezed shut. Thatch blanched as Donald shoved the dead gosling in his face. "Is it enough, Thatch?" he asked grimly.

 

***

 

Galadir the Swift.

It certainly sounds more impressive than Tim, or Timothy, or God forbid, Timmy. He's getting a bit tired of Probie as well, but Tim can accept it. At least while he's still making probie-type mistakes.

Sometimes after he's managed to go a whole day without punching DiNozzo ("Special-Agent-And-Don't-You-Forget-It-DiNozzo"), Tim decides that slipping into Galadir's shoes is a good reward.

Galadir never had a DiNozzo to deal with, and if he had had one, would have probably rapped the idiot on the head with a staff and left him in the forest. Which McGee has been tempted to do, and to hell with the consequences.

Of course, Galadir's never met a Gibbs either, and Tim has a sinking suspicion Galadir's swiftness would come into play as a retreat rather than a battle.

Not that any of that matters. Not right now.

There's a cup of tea by his left hand and some monster butt to kick.

 

***

 

There was Papa, and there was Deputy Director David.

Ziva knew that today's lunch date was with the Deputy Director.

The smile was warm enough, as was the embrace in the warm Tel Aviv sun. "Ziva. You look tired. Sleeping well, I hope."

"I am, Papa. Just a lot to do at work." Papa. Deputy Director. It sometimes got mixed up in her head, but that was part of her job. To keep things straight. 

The Deputy Director nodded, guiding Ziva towards a cafe table. "I ordered lemonade. Seemed like a good idea for this weather."

Ziva smiled. "You said you had something for me?"

Papa's eyes widened, almost imperceptibly. "I do." He pulled an envelope from his briefcase and handed it to her. "You get down to business quickly, Ziva."

Her grin widened. "Like father, like daughter." Papa laughed.

"Well, I suppose I asked for that." He tapped the envelope. "Don't show your mother. It's about your brother."

Ziva's mind raced. She had no brothers, unless...

She took the top edge of a dossier out. Ari Haswari. Ziva bit her frown back. Just as she had suspected.

Her father's words brought her out of her speculation. "Your new assignment."

 

***

 

It's been a warm winter and a wet, early spring. There's a tracing of moss in the deeply-cut letters of the gravestone. 

Caitlin Marie Todd is buried with a pink rosary around her hand and an expertly-covered bullet hole in her head.

It hasn't been that long, and there's already moss growing on the stone. 

Her mother would call her Caitlin Marie when she got in trouble, which was more often than not, but she preferred to be called Kate.

Katie was a privilege earned by only a few; her father was one. Every time her brothers tried to mock her by calling out "Katie," she generally did something that resulted in an exasperated "Caitlin Marie."

Spring is early; there's always a chance the moss will be scrubbed away before it becomes entrenched in the stone.

Before it obscures what's left of Caitlin Marie Todd.


End file.
